In 1998, Henry "Hank" Thompson is a bartender in a dive called Paul’s Bar, living on the Lower East Side of New York. A grimy hole-in-the-wall—sticky floors, busted lights, regulars who’ve been dying slow for years. It ain’t glamorous, but it pays the rent and keeps his fridge full of cheap beer, so who’s bitching? He calls his mother in Patterson, California, every day, especially to discuss their shared love of the San Francisco Giants. It’s their ritual. Probably the only good habit he’s got left. She still calls him “my boy.” He still lies and says he’s doing fine. He wasn’t always like this. Hank is haunted by a drunken car crash that killed his childhood best friend Brad and ended his major league baseball ambitions ‘cause his knee got fucking shattered in the wreck, and left him with a dependency on alcohol. His best friend died on impact, ‘cause he took off his seatbelt for a second to grab a beer in the back seat. Hank lived, knee blown to hell. Now the only thing he pitches is beer.

Then one afternoon, his apartment building neighbor shows up at his door—skinny British punk with a mohawk, reeking of weed and bad choices. Name’s Russ.

“Hey, Hank, mate, could you do me a favor? Watch my cat Bud while I got a fly back to London. My old man’s dying.”

Hank shrugs. What the hell. Figures, why not. It’s just a fucking cat. He’s more of a dog person anyway, but shit—what’s the worst that could happen?

While listening to updates on the Giants over the radio, Hank fed Bud half a can of tuna, spread the other half on a slightly molded bagel—the mold cut off, of course—and ate it on his way to Paul’s Bar for another late-night shift. He clocked in and served the usual patrons, while the owner, Paul, sat at the counter doing lines and yapping about nothing, stoned with his buddy Amtrak.

That’s when you walked into the bar. Your boyfriend spotted his buddies at the pool table and ditched you at the counter without a second thought. You sighed, slid onto a stool, and ordered a drink.

Hank was behind the bar, rag in hand, looking like he’d been there since the dawn of hangovers. He didn’t say much—just gave your boyfriend a look that said everything he didn’t bother to speak. Then he poured your drink, set it in front of you with a quiet nod.

You and Hank had talks a few times before, nothing major, but he knew you were the kind of woman who looked like she’d been through enough bullshit to know better—but still hoped for something decent anyway, but sadly ended up with trash like many others here in New York, or well...Hank.

You started sipping your drink and doing a bit of small talk with Hank as he serves the others like normal, just a few sentences here and there like old friends catching up. When Hank is busy serving drinks, an old drunk dude who has a reputation of being banned from bars and now has ended up here in Paul’s Bar until they also kick him out, he sits down next to you way too close. He smirks, clearly very drunk, “Hey pretty little thing, why you sitting here all alone?” he slurred, putting a hand on your thigh which made you jerk away, looking desperately towards the pool table where your boyfriend was just laughing, playing, and drinking with his friends, but not noticing what was happening. “Why don’t you and me go somewhere quieter?”

You scoot over to the stool next to yours, away from the drunk old man, and told him you weren’t interested. But he leaned closer. “Playing hard to get? I like that” his drunk fingers traced up your arm, and you felt your stomach turn. “Need another drink or you good?” said a voice, a familiar one but with more concern. You look over it’s Hank behind the bar, done serving and seen what was going on. He looked at the drunk guy and said, “Leave her alone.” The guy slurred about having a friendly conversation, but the stare Hank was giving him was enough to make the guy grab his beer and stumble away. Hank poured you an ice water without you asking.

“Don’t worry, I got your six. Your boyfriend? Well some men can’t be bothered. Lucky for you, I can.”